


veritas diaboli manet in aeternum

by rightsidethru, Tricksandarrows



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Norse Mythology, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, M/M, but trickster gods are fun to write, drabbles from tumblr, i probably love loki a bit too much, marvel and norse combi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricksandarrows/pseuds/Tricksandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Loki-centric drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If He Be Worthy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of drabbles written at my Marvel/Norse Mythology Loki roleplay account on Tumblr. Obviously, the drabbles are all Loki-centric--but, from time to time, there will be other character appearances.
> 
> If you're interested in checking out the roleplay account, feel free to check over here:  
> silvertongued-magician.tumblr.com
> 
> Translation: veritas diaboli manet in aeternum - Devil's truth remain eternally 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Whosoever holds this Hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor._

The words: whispered against the gleaming metal of Mjölnir’s skin, a curse and a spell both pressed into the very fabric of the hammer until it bled through metal and magic and fire from the forge—weaving into Mjölnir so that there was nothing left except for the worth and the ability to wield the mighty weapon.

And it was as Odin All-Father had whispered those specific words that Loki could not help but question: _And I? Will I be worthy?_

Doubt had niggled at him for days, eating away at his decision to sit upon Odin’s throne—making him guess and second-guess his plan to attack Jötunheimr. Was it right? Would it prove that he was deserving of Odin’s love, his attention—would it prove that he was more suited to the throne of Asgard than Thor? Such doubt had settled within the crevices of Loki’s heart, sinking in deep and latching its claws to the hidden corners that he rarely let another see.

Yet: _If he be worthy…_

Such a simple test.

The god reached out then as his feet continued to slowly circle Mjölnir and its earthen pedetal; the trickster paused, just for a moment, doubt yet again eating away at his mind—but determination hardened, curiosity piquing. Loki knew that he needed to know for nothing else would satisfy him: if he be worthy. (But what, in the end, was ‘worth’…?)

Hammering his will into a metal sheen, point sharpened and pointed directly at his second guesses and the fear that he was no longer good enough, not now that he knew his true parentage—and Loki curled his fingers over Mjölnir’s hilt, the stem solid within his grip and the leather soft and well-worn against the palm of his hand.

Loki inhaled, held that singular breath, exhaled—

Pulled—

Mjölnir did not move. It did not lift.

_If he be worthy…_

The pain struck deep and hard, settling into his heart and soul—no, no; he was not good enough, had never been good enough; he was not worthy and yet this was the best that he was capable of being; still not enough, _never_ quite enough—and a certain type of perception, a deeply cherished hope that Loki had barely ever acknowledged finally snuffed out of existence.

Long ago—so long ago—Loki had thought himself beyond childish dreams, fantastic wishes and make-believe pretends (and there, in a way, was one of the many reasons for his lying, for if he could make someone else believe those dreams, then perhaps there was a stronger chance—a likelier chance—of them coming true) and yet… and yet.

Still, the trickster god had come.  
Still, the trickster god had tried to lift Mjölnir’s mighty weight.  
Still, he had dreamt of a different end.

A grown man should not be playing make believe.

Loki could not stop himself from closing his eyes, if only for a moment; the grief was piercing, striking to his very core, and it was overwhelming—the extent of his mourning. It was so hard to let go of such a strongly wished-for dream, the validation that would confirm for the god that he was not truly, not completely, who they all thought he was:

But he could not lift Mjölnir.

There was but a moment of silence that stretched throughout the Universe, all Nine Realms holding their breath—even as Loki finally opened his eyes, verdant gaze gleaming with loss and a lessening of his conscience ( _I am who they say I am and I am just as worthless and just as evil as they have claimed for millennia_ ) as his morals skewed just a little bit more—and the would-be king finally opened his clenched fist, releasing the hammer so that his hand could once more fall to his thigh’s side.

_If he be worthy._

It would not be Loki.


	2. Globetrotting For Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an overall storyline featuring Loki with a darkier, edgier Clint (tricksandarrows on Tumblr).

The press of bodies was almost suffocating, each person going here and there: each with their own destination in mind, each anxious to finally reach their end goal. People rushed to their gates, sometimes missing their plane—sometimes not. But it was the hustle and bustle that was edged with chaos that Loki thrived most in, and it was within this miasma of disorder that Loki settled himself comfortably.

Seated in the waiting area for Gate 32 in JFK International Airport, Loki brought his cup of truly atrocious tea to his lips, sipping lightly at the peppermint-flavored brew as his verdant gaze tracked various people rushing about through the halls that connected each gate to one another.

There, a woman on her way to London for business—  
A family heading to Rome to visit family—  
Workers hurrying to a different part of the airport to put out an emergency that had flared up—

So many people, each person so very immersed in their own problems, their own lives: and it was all petty, the way that each was so caught up in their own little lives—unable or unwilling to look forward and out to see the ‘bigger picture.’

The god brought his cup to his lips once again, taking another drink from the now lukewarm liquid, letting the sharp crispness of the mint flavor linger for a moment longer upon his tongue before drinking it down. As he was doing so, however, the trickster caught a glimpse of a familiar shade of blonde hair—eyes tracking the confident steps as the other man made his way down the hallway to head towards some far-off destination.

Not able to resist himself, Loki hid a sly smirk behind the rim of his white cup before calling out, “Safe travels, Mr. Barton~”

When the other man turned around, blue eyes wide with surprise, the god inclined his head slightly, expression openly mocking: offering up that hidden smirk, letting Clint see it, Loki’s gaze glittered with amusement before he abruptly vanished from view before Clint would do more than be surprised at the god’s presence.


	3. HUGINN TO THE HANGED AND MUNINN TO THE SLAIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki gets a visit from two of Odin's favorite spies.

The tip of the cigarette glowed cherry red in the velvety darkness of midnight come and gone: nighttime blanketed the city of New York, and yet horns continued to honk, lights continued to blur out the stars high above, and the beating pulse laid down by the lines of the streets continued to throb in undeniable life. Here was the City that never slept—and here, too, was one of the gods who now called it home.

Loki took another drag of the cancerous stick, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs: lingering a bit longer than what was the norm, before allowing the silver-tinged air to trickle slowly from his nose and mouth like so much dragon’s breath. It circled ‘round his head like a dirty halo, wisps of smoke—spirits’ features flickering briefly within the haze—threading through the trickster’s coal-dark hair before finally dissipating by the lover’s caress of a nighttime breeze.

He flicked the cigarette idly, end glowing brighter than before while particles of ash drifted down to settle upon the railing that Loki found himself currently leaning against. The zephyr brushed against the sharp line of an etched cheekbone, as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss, and Loki let his verdant gaze go hooded as he once again breathed deeply from the cigarette that was as pale as the fingers that it was held between.

Dirty, stained vapor once more slipped like an escaping soul from the Norseman’s parted lips, filling the open air with the scent of burning mistletoe and cloves, and Loki’s lashes hooded his verdant gaze further as the black fringed lowered:

“Huginn and Muninn: Thought and Memory,” the god murmured idly, taking another drag before finally glancing sidelong at the pair of ravens settled upon the top of his balcony’s railing. The flicker of his gaze was indolent, a lazy gesture that spoke of such contempt without ever having to truly utter a word. “I wonder, though— _what_ do you think and _who_ do you remember, mmm~?”

“Everything,” answered one half of the pair.

“Everyone,” the second replied, response coming as the first’s simple reply hung between them and the trickster god.

And yet:

Loki remained, as ever, the god of lies—and the ravens’ answers held a tinny, whining note of untruth; it was enough to make the trickster snort quietly in derision, again flicking his cigarette to rid it of its butt, this time aiming the ember and ash in the direction of the All-Father’s spies. Mood abruptly turning foul, the god brought the cigarette to his mouth to again draw in a lungful of the diseased smoke, filling his body with the socially acceptable form of poison: wanting the heat within his body, wanting the sting against his innards. Wanting to expel the taint in a way that he could never do with his own soul.

“Begone,” Loki abruptly ordered, tone curt as the ravens’ feathers ruffled in affront. “I no longer find myself willing to listen to your irksome squawking.” 

One of the birds opened its beak, the words that Odin had given it settling upon the tip of its tongue—and then Loki glanced sidelong at it, bright green gaze glittering with banked insanity and steadied fury. The words died before ever fully forming—

( _lies lies lies; they would have been lies, anyway_ )

—and the ravens, both of them, finally spread their wings to launch themselves away from the apartment building, gliding through the air and moving further away from the trickster god with each and every flap of their large wingspan. All the while, Loki watched Huginn and Muninn leave, cigarette dangling lazily from his bottom lip, and the slender man idly thought to himself:

How apt that Odin’s mind—his thought and his memory—are represented by carrion eaters.

The observation was enough to garner a vicious smirk across Loki’s mouth, a mean slash that didn’t bother hiding any of his malice towards the All-Father, and the god once more tapped away the crumbling ash from the end of his cigarette before lifting his gaze to the sky high above him.

He could not see the stars—the light pollution from New York City was too great for that—and Loki found himself mourning their loss. It was… disappointing, for the sorcerer had always found something comforting within their cold, distant beauty. Perhaps it was their constancy, something that he never had to search far for—only to wait until twilight fell upon whatever Realm he currently found himself in.

Finishing up the cigarette, Loki pushed himself away from the balcony’s railing and stepped through the sliding glass of his door, toes burying into the plush carpet beneath the soles of his feet—and with a mood that was strangely subdued.

Three a.m. made itself known with muted chimes of his grandfather clock.


	4. the gallows tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested drabble with 'Odin' as the prompt.

_I know that I hung on a windy tree nine long nights,  
wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,  
myself to myself,  
on that tree of which no man knows  
from where its roots run._

_No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn,  
downwards I peered;  
I took up the runes, screaming I took them,  
then I fell back from there._

The blood dripped, drop by drop, from the wound at Odin’s side:

Heart-deep, the All-Father had managed to plunge his spear, piercing the beating organ as his nearly dead body swayed slowly from the World Tree, Yggdrasill. With the grayness of Odin’s skin, color chalky and pasty from pain and loss of vital fluids, Loki supposed—idly—that perhaps this tree would soon enough become the King’s gallows. A gallows, the ‘horse of the hanged’: and such vicious delight that particular thought provided the god, he who thought that this tree was a more fitting ‘horse’ for the King of Asgard than his son.

The old man’s eyes slowly opened, one nothing more than empty socket and the other dull with the agony of his constantly bleeding wound; soon enough, if not treated, it would be fatal—not even Odin was completely infallible. Every living being, from the meekest to the mightiest, would one day find their immortal rest.

No one was exempt.

“Loki…” Odin rasped softly, body swaying to and fro in the gentle breeze that slipped as quietly as a lover’s whisper through Yggdrasill’s branches. “I… I cannot. It… is too much… Please…”

Let me down.

The trickster god watched the man who had called himself his father from beneath green, hooded eyes, lashes midnight-dark as they veiled his verdant gaze from the All-Father. A hand came up, calloused fingertips lightly rubbing over the thin curve of his bottom lip: thoughts flickering, to and fro, slipping away with an assassin’s grace through the twisted labyrinth of the god’s mind. Eventually, however, Loki quirked a small smile, tilting his head just enough to the side so that his coal-black hair rasped softly over the leather of one shoulder.

“I cannot,” the sorcerer answered, tone mockingly demure as his eyes glittered with malice up at the dying god-king. “You picked this path to walk upon of your own free will, All-Father. You wished for knowledge. All knowledge must come at a price.”

(It would not be worth it otherwise.)

Odin did not speak his reply aloud, though the response settled into the crags and valleys—age-lines deepening with each passing moment as the pain continued to worsen—of the elder’s face: Some prices are too steep to pay.

Lightly, Loki’s fingers danced over his mouth—tap-tap-tapping in time to the steady, never-ending drip-drip-drip of Odin’s blood pattering to the packed earth at Yggdrasill’s roots—and it was then that the trickster god smiled, teeth gleaming pearly white against the bone-hue of his skin. “Tell me, Father: when Borr, my ‘grandfather,’ was begging for your help as his body dissolved into snow… did you help him~?”

There was a brief widening of Odin’s eyes as memory sparked, a time that had drifted into ‘once upon a time ago’ when his sons were still naught more than children—

—a bright, jade-green pair of cat’s eyes glittering at him from the shadows of the cave, even as Borr cursed Odin for his refusing to help—

—and realization dawned for the All-Father.

“…Loki… …why…?”

The curl of the younger god’s mouth was cruel, a deep slash that settled upon his face; and Loki tilted his head just-so, gesture almost innocently quizzical—if one did not see the glint of bided-upon, patient, plotting wrath and the kiss of instability within his eyes.

“Because ever have I been your most attentive pupil, Odin,” Loki purred softly, hands spreading wide in an effortlessly graceful gesture. “Because you took my children—innocent babes—from me. Because I do not forgive and I never forget. And because you sought a Higher type of knowledge, and even I know that you can never cheat its price: nine nights shall you hang from the World Tree. Nine nights shall you suffer. Nine nights shall you court Death. Perhaps the knowledge gained will be worth it.”

The god shrugged then, gesture indecipherable. 

“I do not think it will be.”

Loki turned then, long trail of his coat brushing the trickster’s calves with each and every step: it did not take long before his form began to fade, the traveler gathering his back to slip effortlessly between the different Realms—ignoring each one of Odin’s ragged, hoarse cries: begging to be let down, demanding help, ordering the god as his father and King for aid. But the words might as well have fallen upon deaf ears, for nothing that the All-Father said managed to coax Loki into turning ‘round, let alone glancing over his shoulder.

All knowledge came at a price.

(Even Loki had had to pay his dues when Fate had come to collect, for once graciously bowing down to the demands that he could not wriggle out of: there was a give and take that the wordsmith knew how to manipulate, how to shift the balance in his own favor—but he had not been able to slip away from paying completely. Even Loki had given his pound of flesh.)

The knowledge that Odin wished to gain came at a higher price than most; but it had been the All-Father’s decision, the path that the god-king had so arrogantly made his first steps down upon, and Loki would take the greatest amount of pleasure in ensuring that the King of Asgard paid his wereguild in full—

For Loki wished to see Odin suffer.

He slipped away into Between with the All-Father’s howls of rage and agony echoing in his ears.


	5. The Devil Wears Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Loki makes an appearance.

The sharp _clack-clack-clack_ of stiletto heels against concrete and asphalt came at a steady rate as Loki leisurely made her way through the fog and shadows of nighttime New York City. People said that New York was the city that never slept, but here—in this rundown neighborhood, more windows boarded up than actually containing panes of glass—residents slept if only to get away from the reality of their situation. Too often, people turned away and kept their eyes shut: not wanting to see, not wanting to hear, finding refuge in the dreams that held brighter options for them.

Those dreams drifted lazily around Loki’s stockinged ankles, caressing the deceptively delicate bones that led up to shapely calves—but the goddess easily stepped through those silver-limed thoughts, brushing them away from her body with each and every step that she took.

There was business to be done, after all, and Loki did not have all night to waste.

She passed by shrouded corners, dark alleyways, and yawning, beckoning doorways with little enough trouble—but Loki knew that one’s luck wouldn’t last forever, and it came as no surprise when her footsteps began echoing slightly out of rhythm as the dark-haired goddess passed by one of those empty alleys. She paused for a moment—the footsteps did, as well—and tilted her head to the side, green eyes hooding dangerously as a small smile tugged lightly at one corner of her blood-red mouth.

A step. Another.  
—the others came, just barely out of sync. 

All the while, Loki’s verdant gaze glittered with a predator’s hungry intent.

The trickster goddess continued to make her way further into the dying neighborhood, stilettos continuing to tap-tap-tap against the shattered pavement, and it was such a simple thing to pick out that second (now a third, finally a fourth) set of footsteps: and it amused her, knowing that her prey thought that they were the true predators. Such confidence they held in themselves, and it showed as the others’ footsteps began to quicken, the four men hurrying to finally catch up to her—to corner her. To trap her and do what petty criminals did best with women walking alone at night.

Her first attacker’s hand clamped down around her upper arm, and it was such a simple thing to shift, sidestepping away from his harsh yank and instead shoving her dagger deep within his gut. The man didn’t even have time to cry out in surprised pain before he was falling to her feet. The other three men paused momentarily at that, freezing at the sudden shift in power.

And Loki smiled at them, white teeth startingly bright against the dark red of her mouth and the midnight shades within the darkness of the alley, and the goddess tilted her head just enough to one side to let a thick strand of coal-black hair fall over the pale swell of a breast.

“I am a woman, but I am no one’s victim,” Loki chided quietly, jade-green eyes glittering strangely in the night, smile broadening and turning predatory as the man at her feet gave his last breath and finally went completely still. “Least of all a camaraderie of fools’. You will die this night for thinking otherwise, my dears~”

“Fuckin’ _bitch_.”

It was for this reason (…though one of many, true) that Loki held such contempt for Midgardians: they never learned. Never bothered trying to change. Never thought to try anything different. Like mice they were, constantly running the same maze: using the same turns, going ‘round the unchanged corners—and wondering why they came to that oh-so familiar dead-end.

Sidestepping away from that fury-fueled swing, Loki brought her palm up: grasping the flailing forearm, her hand struck out to connect to the underside of the would-be attacker’s elbow. The crack from breaking bone echoed down the street. As did the man’s scream of pain. When his cry abruptly cut off, that lack of sound was stark enough to raise the hairs upon a person’s arm.

A thrown blade bit deep within the third man’s chest, the dark red of heart’s blood bubbling up around the fatal wound, and the fourth criminal turned tail and ran, feet pounding against the ground before he, too, fell and lay still. Neither would ever get up again.

Magicking away the weaponry with a small, bright turquoise spark from her fingertips, Loki stepped gracefully over two of the bodies before once more resuming her way towards this night’s meeting point, hips gently swaying beneath the form-fitting material of her little black dress.

The poignant clacking of her heels against the pavement sounded so much more ominous, sharply—dangerously—foreboding, than before. As Loki slipped into and through one of the many shadows that littered the street, the clock shifted to the witching hour—and verdant eyes glowed faintly as a soft laugh whispered along a passing breeze.


	6. breaking even

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another requested drabble. This one has the prompt of 'Baldr.'

“Why?”

The question is tonelessly asked, shades of grey seeping through the apparition’s voice—for this realm has always been done in greyscale, color bleeding out until only the remnants of shadow and midnight remain. It is a cold, winter-deep realm: vividly stark and without hope, happiness leeched away like the unending and unrelenting tides of the Midgardian sea. Sharp angles with no true softness to ease the blow in reminding one that it is here, in Helheim, where the dishonored dead reside.

Perhaps it is that hopelessness that appeals most to the god of mischief.

Perhaps it is because, here, there is only grey: for black and white blur so easily, blending together at their edges, giving way to that capricious, mercurial middleground—and it is that middleground in which Loki thrives most spectacularly.

The god glances back at his brother, his nephew, the god in which he once called friend and family: a shield-brother, the Shining One. Beloved of Odin. Once upon a time ago, when the Nine Realms were freshly made and Loki had not gained that exquisitely lying tongue… once upon a time ago, that last title would have stabbed envy deep within his heart. And yet…

That was then.

This is now.

And, oh, how millennia have passed. 

With verdant gaze glimmering, the only true color in the trickster’s face, Loki turns to face Baldr completely: shoulderblades idly—almost absently—resting against the rockface at his back, deadly-sharp blade flicking through his constantly moving fingers with a grace that could only truly come from Dance and Death. Over and over and over again, constantly moving—never stopping, for that is not part of this weapon’s particular dance: fickle things, blades—weapons—so easy to fail when most needed; so fickle, too, in being the strength that most men rely on.

(Loki is not most men.)

The blade stills, if only for a moments, before resuming its effortlessly deadly movements. And it is in that moment, with weapon so very, very quiet, that Loki’s head tilts just-so, coal-dark hair rasping over the leather of his covered collarbone.

“Mmm~? Why what, my dear~?”

—and there is a knowing, a dark knowledge, within Loki’s gaze that says ‘I know what you ask. I know, I will always know, but it is painful for you to ask, and I wish for nothing more than to see you suffer.’

Lightly, the trickster’s lips curve into a smile—and with the thinness of his mouth, the baring of his teeth, that smile looks so very much like a rictus grin. Terrifying and inhuman, though Loki has never claimed to be otherwise.

It does not matter, though: the shade still shivers, arms coming ‘round to wrap tightly around a middle that has remained trim and fit even through the passing of years. But the shiver does come, regardless of inner and outer strength, and Baldr lifts his head to meet Loki’s too-bright, waiting gaze.

There is so much rage, so much hate, to behold—and that nearly softly, sweetly gentle smile that the god now has makes the contrast that much more terrifying to behold. A monster, a monster, such a monster—they let a monster into Asgard, that which the gods frightened their children of at night (stories told as nighttime crept slowly on by; stories which filled a heart with fear of the dark); that which would finally bring the End.

And yet…

“You were he whom I once called ‘brother,’” Baldr begins quietly, and his voice is so very, very dignified considering he is face-to-face with his murderer. “Why whisper sweet nothings to the mistletoe until it was ready to do your bidding? Why could you not mourn for me, fallen and in disgrace, as Þökk? Why did your eyes remain dry and your heart as cold as ice, my brother? What did I ever do to raise your ire?”

And yet—

Baldr had not believed that he would gain a true emotional response from Loki.

He is wrong.

The trickster’s smile only widens further as the bright one’s words finally trickle off: grin so very—incredibly—welcoming and open and so many teeth bared (the better to eat you with, my dear) as those springtime green eyes grow colder and colder, frigid, and clasp tightly the darkest heart of Winter.

“Oh ho~” the dark god purrs, voice like velveteen and midnight made audible—for here resides the witching hour in blood and bone and gut, marrow Yuletide icy as frost forms on the trickster’s lips. “How quickly you all forget. Such poor memories! I’m surprised that the lot of you can remember anything at all~”

The words are enough to cause Baldr’s brows to furrow slightly, confusion warring with the usual apathy that settles into all of Helheim’s residents’ gazes. The shade steps closer, reaching out for Loki—who, in turn, slips so easily between Baldr’s fingers that he may as well have been smoke.

“…I do not understand.”

It is then, finally, that Loki’s gaze lights: green now burning with an unholy fire, sickly flickering and guttering before lighting anew—there is so much emotion here, now, that Baldr flinches back with a small sound.

When the silver-tongued god finally speaks, his words are simple and unadorned:

“The All-Father took my children from me. Was it not fair that I, in turn, took his favorite son from him~?”

And there is nothing but twisted satisfaction within those glittering, tearless eyes—and finally, here, too, something absolutely terrifying is understood by the once brightly shining Odinson: That, for being denied the love of his children, Loki would raze all Nine Realms to the ground until nothing remained but cinder and ash and soot.

For love of his children.

—and Baldr trembles in dawning realization.

(For here is Ragnarök.)


	7. Sleipnir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet another requested drabble. Please take the warning seriously.

[[ Just as a head’s up—I’m mixing events in the Norse mythologies (chronological order, I mean) for this particular drabble—and I know that lots of people make jokes about Loki and Svaðilfari, but Loki wasn’t exactly… thrilled… with the stallion’s attention in myth, so there are warnings for dubious consent. Very, very dubious. Mixing the request with my own headcanon for myth!Loki and my Loki, so you pretty much have my own thoughts on the event. ]]

————————

A man was tied to his word.

It mattered not that that word was given under duress—cornered and beaten, blows raining down as “Your fault! Your fault!” echoed within his ears: for the gods of Asgard did not want to lose Freyja and the sun and the moon (though Loki saw little enough value in the sun and moon and even less in Freyja herself), and—as one—they blamed Loki for their current predicament.

And though the trickster did have a hand in this—in the promises made (three seasons was surely not enough to build it all, so many of the gods had thought to themselves while hiding their smirks behind cupped hands)—it was because of the fact that so few within the court took a moment to truly think that they ended up thusly.

And yet—

And yet.

None of that stopped the meaty hands from raining down; none of that stopped the gutteral cursing, the bear-like snarls of rage: none of it stopped until Loki finally called out, “I’ll stop his progress! I swear it!”—for a man was tied to his sworn word, and it did not matter that, for Loki, the choice had been between making that oath or dying at his family’s hands. No choice, no choice, no choice at all (but was there ever one?).

Thus it was here, on the outskirts of the forest that circled ‘round his home—the trickster shifted into the form of a mare. He moved silently through the grasses and underbrush, vegetation brushing his legs as the dark smell of pine filled his flaring nostrils—and the trickster god skirted past here-and-there, flirting with the wild as Loki made his way towards the areas still under construction. Silently, silently—

There. Then.

Svaðilfari’s scream as the stallion caught his scent, and then came the chase—hooves pounding, heavy and hard, against packed earth. Faster and faster, Loki ran and, yet, it still did not matter for the stallion with the strength of many still flew tight at his legs. So close, ever closer, Svaðilfari galloped—and Loki could not transform because he had given his word to stop construction and because if he stopped now, the other gods would kill him—for that is what they had sworn to do: and a man must be ever true to his word.

And yet—

And yet—

And yet why was he, the one they called the god of lies, so determined to keep his word? Was it, perhaps, because Loki hoped that the others would return his children to him? His beautiful daughter and handsome sons? Did he hope that the exiles would end and the pain would lessen, if only for a brief moment—a wish, deeply hidden, to be able to open his arms wide and welcome his children home. Safe. Safe, safe, though: they should be safe, here, with their father.

It was the agony of heartache, heartbreak, that caused Loki’s steps to stumble, caused his stride to falter: it was just one misstep, and yet it was still enough for Svaðilfari’s strong teeth to latch onto the base of Loki’s neck as the stallion prepared to mount him.

So easy to shift shape.  
So simple to let free this temporary form, to become one with the wind and wander far and wide—  
So easy to break his word. To leave behind duty.

But Loki Liesmith had given his oath.

—his children, his children—

How desperately he wanted his children: bound, discarded, sentenced to an eternity of disgrace and lack of beauty. All without his love, his touch—his presence, their father; each scattered so far away fromhim, and yet how hungrily Loki wanted his children. Family, home, children—

And duty and desire for that which had been taken from him—his children, his children, his children—and Loki paused, nearly transparent as his transformation came to a standstill—and the realization came:

Horrible and ugly and a promise to haunt his nightmares with pain and humiliation and fury and horror and shame (for there was always, always shame)—

But though the god’s children had been taken from him, there was still another chance:

My child, my child.

He felt Svaðilfari’s weight settle upon him, Loki’s own legs nearly buckling beneath the brute of a stallion, and the trickster’s mind went static-white (don’t think, don’t consider, don’t doubt: my word, my oath, my children) as he felt Svaðilfari move over him, against him, within him (shame, shame, disgust, the shame was drowning him in bile).

—miles away, Thor was smashing the hrimthurs’ skull with his mighty hammer—

And yet—

And yet—

The discovery came too late, for the stallion had finished, slacked his lust, and Loki knew that this new form’s belly would soon enough grow large with a child (my child, my child, my child). And to have that child, no matter what shape its body took—to finally have a child again, his family and home—

Loki slowly pushed himself upright, stumbling and shaky on four legs as he carefully withdrew into the forest, trees overhead closing over him—embracing him as a child of the wood because Loki had ever been fickle and fey and mercurial in nature: as ever-changing as the wind. A haven, here—until his water broke and he finally gave birth (alone, alone, but this would make the child his: his, his, all his).

‘You are mine and I shall love you; I shall protect you and let no harm befall you as happened to your brothers and sister,’ the god whispered silently as the tiny creature took root within him and quickened, too-small heartbeat mirroring Loki’s own.

‘I shall protect you.’

***

Sleipnir was still awkward, gangly with too long, too many legs—each tripping over the other to send him tumbling down to the ground—nose over rear with Loki’s surprisingly strong hands keeping the gray foal from harm.

The baby horse never strayed far from Loki’s side, and the trickster god was never seen without the eight-legged foal: always touching and coaxing, fingers running through a short mane while hands cupped a velveteen muzzle.

It did not matter how different their forms were:

Sleipnir was his son. His child. His flesh and blood and family and home. His.

“It looks as if he will shape up to be a fine stallion. I have been looking for a new warhorse, Loki. Get him easy with the tack and teach him the bit and bridle,” came the order from his side before Odin—father father father, but father who had never once called off those heavy fists—settled a hand at Loki’s shoulder. The All-Father’s gaze was assessing as it settled on Sleipnir, imagining just what the delicate-looking foal would look like in a few years’ more time.

Glad that he had come across the pair when he had, Odin lightly clapped Loki’s shoulder before heading back into the Hall to resume the meeting with his aids—and the Abyss opened up at Loki’s feet, slowly dragging the trickster under, swallowing him whole and filling his lungs with tar. Sticky and clinging, no hope of brushing it off—and Loki allowed the hopelessness to overcome him as he struggled to breathe.

My child. _My child._ **My child.**

I shall protect you.

“No.”


	8. Guardian Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift written for Aidan (beautyisnotseen @ Tumblr).

The stories of myth and legend, tales of the fantastic of the impossible of heroes and great deeds and of once-upon-a-time: there was always a kernel of truth buried within these stories, hidden beneath the layers of make-believe and fancy—but there, somewhere, always… there was a truth.

Loki had come to see many of these truths.

Centuries passed, millennia crawling by: years passing and he watched, from the shadows, from the background, rarely participating in events that unfolded before him—more content to watch and learn and gain knowledge through observation (and yet, his own mythos proved that the trickster god wasn’t able to always stand to one side and look on as an objective observer). But, within those centuries, he had watched stories being written out in real-time, had watched the hero defeat the dragon, had watched the Leviathan finally overcome the man of legend. 

He had watched, he had waited, and—sometimes—the trickster had kept pieces of the story for himself.

The simple, circular band—unadorned except for a blood-dark ruby insetted within the precious metal—was rolled between two of Loki’s bone-pale fingers, pianist hands, scholar hands, and yet hands that wielded his blades with perfect aim: those unnaturally long fingers held the ring up to the window, looking out upon the sun through the simple circle that the ring created.

So many possibilities, all hidden within such a simple piece of jewelry.

(Perhaps, then, that was what appealed the most to Loki: the secrets, the layered potential, the harmlessness of the item when it could easily hold the power of the universe. If one knew how to wield it correctly.)

The god tilted his head to one side, glancing over his shoulder with a heavy-lidded gaze as Aidan stepped through the doorway. A spark of mischief lit the trickster’s springtime-green eyes, and Loki did not bother to hide the way that his smirk deepened and broadened and turned decadently wicked.

He made his way through the demi-god’s bedchambers, strides arrogantly confident, ground-eating from the sheer length of his legs: it took him but a moment to finally stop before the blind man, took but a moment more to place the ring in the center of Aidan’s palm.

“A birthday gift,” Loki said simply, cutting off the question that he could see rising in those aquamarine eyes, and it was then that Aidan would have been able to taste that smirk for his own as the god leaned in and caught the other’s mouth in a hungrily possessive kiss.

…and all the while, in the back of his mind, Loki could not help the thought that flickered, brief and layered with amusement: Oh, to be the fly on the wall the first time that Aidan accidentally rubbed the ring—and discovered what would emerge from the jewelry piece in turn.


	9. a father should not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous drabble request for 'nightmares.'

A father should never have to bury his children. It was the children—always, always, always—that must be the ones to bury their father, setting him down within the cool cradle of the earth or letting his soul take wing through the ever brightly burning flames of the funeral pyre.

But a father should never have to bury his children.

Váli’s empty gaze stared sightlessly across the cave from where the gods had tossed his body, and it did not matter that they had turned his son into a wolf before setting him upon Narfi—Loki still was able to recognize the heart of his son within those amber eyes, and the trickster god mourned desperately at the loss of yet another family member, one of his blood who had been taken from him—whose body was left here to rot until only the god’s bones were left, gleaming from the passage of time and wind and the breathless cold of the Yuletide season.

—and yet that was not the only son that he had lost this day.

Bound to the rocks by the entrails of Narfi, chained through the death of a son who had done naught but be Lokison, beloved of the trickster and connected through each and every one of his dearest actions upon them—blood and skin and the far-reaching connection of being kin—and how the bile raised to the back of the green-eyed man’s throat at the knowledge that these sons, his children, would never be given a funeral.

As the stars began their slow ascent over the edge of the horizon, Loki closed his eyes, giving in to the nightmares—the memories of true events that had passed and were yet to come—color bleeding away and fading into grayscale that started from the corners of his mind and stretched outwards: seeping into every crack, every crevice, every twist within Loki’s already unstable mind.

And the serpent swayed above him, drip-drip-dripping its venom down upon Loki’s restrained form, the acidic burn settling into the marrow of his bones as skin and muscle and innards were eaten away to leave Loki’s body as hollow as his heart.

He despaired.

He hated.

He plotted the End.


	10. snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous drabble request for 'snow.'

Snow on Midgard is nothing like the neverending winter in Jötunheimr.

For one, the snow in Middle-earth does not come in the harsh blue of darkest winter, edged in darkness and endless night. The snow is cleaner, brighter—warmer, surprisingly so. (But, then again, very little feels like ‘true’ cold to Loki nowadays.)

And yet…

There is still something about the delicately intricate ice crystals that intrigues Loki so. It is that piqued interest, that curiosity that has stood time and trial, that coaxes him out from beneath the overhang to look up at the metal-toned clouds high above him.

Snow catches on his eyelashes and Loki blinks; the flakes melt away the moment that his lashes come in contact with the tops of his cheekbones—there is damp upon his skin now, tracks of water as if he has been crying.

(But Loki cannot remember the last time that he has cried, not since his Fall.)

It is further curiosity, however, that coaxes the leather gloves from his long-fingered hands, curiosity that brings him to stretch out an arm to catch the flakes on the palm of his hand.

It is disappoint, however, that finally causes Loki to retreat back within the building: disappointment at seeing his skin turn blue at the first touch of snowfall; disappointment in realizing that winter is winter, no matter the realm.

Disappointment and ache in realizing that winter is a harsh mistress, no matter the realm, and that there is no hiding who he truly is—anywhere.


	11. sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request for 'love and sheets.'

Loki was never one for spending the night.

He would do the deed, slacking his pleasure in the necessary way, and then he would take a moment to pause and catch his breath—chest rising and falling while he stared up at the ceiling with a blank, flat gaze.

The sheets stuck to his sweaty skin, clinging as tightly to him as the nameless woman at Loki’s side; the way that she settled her cheek against his chest made something ugly and twisted and unhappy churn within his belly—and the trickster god was still left wanting.

He moved out from beneath the woman, pushing to the edge of the mattress as he gathered together his clothing: dressing with quick, abrupt gestures of his hands as bone-pale skin once more became hidden away beneath layers of material.

“My love…?” the lady asked, voice tinged in confusion when Loki finally stepped completely away from the bed to head towards the door to her bedchamber. The light-haired woman gathered the comforter to her bosom, covering her nakedness as she reached out towards the Asgardian prince with one hand that—perhaps—trembled slightly in hurt.

“No,” Loki answered simply, letting the finality ring out in the tone of his voice; for someone so gifted with words, that single response came down with the power of Mjölnir’s strike.

Loki was not one for staying; Loki was not one for _sentiment_.


	12. a broken man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request for 'shatter.'

He had still hoped.

He had still dreamed—

A foolish, childish notion that lingered within his heart, hidden away and buried beneath darkness and malice and despair so far-reaching that Loki had stopped registering the ache the first time that his heart had broken.

He had managed to cling on to the idea of ‘maybe, maybe’ because ‘maybe’ was mercurial and ever-changing and perhaps, perhaps, would shift into something more in his favor—because the future was not set in stone and there was always the chance that the dice would land differently, particularly when you were the god of chance and chaos.

But as Loki kneeled upon the floor, staring into the bucket filled with water from Urðarbrunnr—finally saw the Fate that he had been dealt, the one that had been concealed from him, and the monster within—the monster that had spawned monsters, the silvered-tongue god of lies and deceit—rose up from the depths of his soul.

And swallowed him whole.

The glittering remains of the Bifrost lay scattered about his form in shattered pieces of past mistakes and future wrongdoings and Loki’s hands came up to cover his face, wanting to take but just a moment to say ‘no, I do not want this’—

For when his long-fingered hands finally dropped away and his hard, flat verdant eyes again opened, all would have changed.

For the worst.


End file.
